Until the Day I Die
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: "I told you once that I was happy to be your servant until the day I died. Now you know I wasn't lying." The king would have given anything if the beast had taken him instead of his friend...
1. Chapter 1

_5, 183 words. Yeah. Longest chapter I have ever penned...typed...whatever.  
So the story behind this story is that after the epilogue of _Through Golden Eyes_, I had the idea for another, slightly more angsty deathfic. But before you punch that poor back arrow, I just want to let you know that it probably won't be as bad as you think, because I'm going to add another chapter, though whether it has a happy ending or an angsty ending will be up to the reviewers.  
Merlin and Arthur are considerably older; not quite old men, but somewhere forty/fiftiesh. Just so you get that image in your head.  
Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter I**

"Arthur, please stop it."

Had it been under any other circumstances, he would have responded to such a direct statement with a cuff to the back of a dark head and an unnecessarily strident,

"_Who wears the crown here, Merlin_?"

As it was, however, when the weak and pained voice reached his ears as he paced from one ancient stone wall to another, Arthur Pendragon could do nothing more than obey, the mere sound of the words cutting through him like shards of ice to his very soul.

Silently, he moved to the opposite wall of the little shack, past the unnervingly silent fire, to the dark corner where the flickering light did not reach. As he carefully lifted the water flask with the telltale purple ribbon (torn from an old neckerchief after its owner received a luxurious purple cloak in the place of the over-worn cloth) tied around the top, he cursed the day they had arrived at this ice-covered place in his mind, damning himself for his own, destructive fault.

Why had he had compassion upon his weary knights and allowed them to rest? Why hadn't he known the monster sent to destroy him was so close? How could he not have thought it would find them if they stopped? Why hadn't he expected Merlin to take his place as victim of the wretched hell-demon? Why hadn't he stayed awake to guard over him like the courageous king he was believed to be, instead of slumbering like a slothful, arrogant fool and allowing his dearest friend to meet this horrible fate?

Why had Merlin had to be such a stupid, noble hero? Why couldn't he have just let the beast kill him? _Why had Merlin done this to him?_

He turned back to his sorcerer, who was slumped like an ailing vagrant against the cold wall, his indigo cloak wrapped tightly around him, with its edges sprawled across the old mattress left behind by a sentry long ago. Merlin had warned him it would be infested with vermin, and Arthur had insisted they both take it anyway, for they would need all heat they could secure, and Merlin could banish every undesirable pest with the blink of an eye, so why was he bothering to warn Arthur when he could just _do it_ and they could get some rest already?

Now, the bed, with its tattered rags for blankets and deteriorated wooden frame, looked eerie and foreboding, and the sorcerer in its center, with his scrawny knees pulled against his heaving chest and his flesh paler than the dirtied coverlets, looked so frail and vulnerable in its clutches.

Arthur resisted a shudder at the sight.

Merlin was high sorcerer of Camelot; he was formidable, and mighty, and _good_. He was too good, much too good to be bent so feebly around himself in silent agony, and to be holding the pitiful whimpers resolutely in his throat, with his eternally wise and changeable eyes dim and his flesh so sickly gray. He was too precious, too valuable, to die this way, in a lonely shack in some icy, foreign kingdom when he deserved warmth and security and peace in his beloved home…_not like this, not like this_….

"Surely there must be something I can do," he murmured…_begged_…before he even knew what he was saying, as he leant down and pressed the canteen into the shaking hands, watching as his friend summoned his remaining strength just to lift it to his dry lips.

"She took my magic, Arthur," came the whisper when Merlin had forced the cool water down, in a voice so hoarse and tired and utterly hopeless it surely couldn't be his Merlin. "There's nothing anyone can do."

A fight rose in Arthur's chest, a denial, an argument—something, _there must be something_. He had learnt so long ago that it was all but futile to fight with his trusted advisor, for Merlin never spoke in such an uncompromising manner and with such cold iron in his eyes unless he was absolutely and unreservedly certain, and Merlin was never wrong.

_Why can't he be wrong?_

Arthur looked away, knowing it was less than useless, but still the fight did not leave him. He was angry; _he_ _needed to be angry_. He needed to wage war, to battle against something, to _fight for Merlin_. If he was only given the chance to fight for him, he would be victorious. He would do anything to win...anything to escape the grief.

"How could you do this, Merlin?"

He cursed himself when his voice faltered.

Merlin raised his head wearily, gentle eyes a sorrowed gray as he observed his king in a way only he could.

"I had no choice, Arthur," he spoke quietly, and unlike all the times when they had been here, just as they were, with Arthur angered to the point of shouting because of Merlin's self-sacrificing loyalty, his tone was neither confrontational nor challenging, but pleading for forgiveness, _only pleading_, for the wise sorcerer knew what he had done would be permanent and irredeemable. "She would not have stopped until she thought she had destroyed you."

"Then you should have let her, Merlin," Arthur's voice was a furious hiss, as he turned piercing blue eyes to the trembling sorcerer.

Merlin hardly flinched, but held the accusing gaze as steadily as he had always done.

"You know I couldn't have done that, Arthur," he said simply; his hands twisted tightly in the cloak embracing him, but he struggled to show no other signs as a flare of silent pain tore through him.

Arthur, for all his frustrating blindness to the feelings of those around him, saw the pain of his friend immediately, and his eyes dropped at Merlin's words, because yes, they both knew that Merlin would never, no matter the cost, let anything hurt his master when he could stand between Arthur and the danger.

This time, however, the cost was too great. _Much too great._

Silence then, and Arthur knew he would have to move eventually, that he could not kneel before his dying friend forever and merely savor his company, that he must rise and ultimately find a way to exist.

_How does one go on breathing without his guardian angel?_

A cough, soft and vulnerable, and a whine of anguish arrested Arthur's attention and made his blood run cold; bile rose in his throat as Merlin bent forward, half-choking and moaning as dark, dark blood spurted past his lips and splattered across the dirt floor.

Arthur could do nothing but watch, petrified, as Merlin clutched his chest, blood flooding from his mouth, choking on it as he cried out with the excruciating agony.

It seemed as though it would never end, but at last, Merlin rolled onto his back, panting desperately for breath, his eyes shut tightly, lids quivering.

Arthur was completely silent as he tore a section of his royal garment and, gently as he could manage, wiped away the drops of remaining blood staining Merlin's pink lips.

Blue eyes rimmed with green met his own.

"S-sorry, Arthur."

And for one, brief instant, he felt like striking Merlin himself for his apologizing for something like this.

Merlin remained still as Arthur pulled the half-tattered blankets up and around his slim body, but his eyes ran over his master's face in that ever-familiar, searching manner.

"You're tired," he perceived at last, his face full of sympathy for his king. "You should lie down, Arthur. You can't help either yourself or me when you can barely keep your eyes open."

Arthur felt a peculiar swell of emotion, the likes of which rarely struck him, and he had to pull his gaze away or he knew the deep grief Merlin's kind words struck within him would spill out from his burning eyes. For the innumerable amount of times he had huffed puerilely and proceeded to do just the opposite of what Merlin asked, he found whatever shaky rebellion within him crumbling like stone in an earthquake. How could his wondrous sorcerer possibly love him so absolutely that he could bring himself to care about Arthur's petty discomforts while he lay here, dying from this agony?

A hand reached out and weakly tugged his wrist with insistence, and his automatic response was to look up.

"Lie down, Arthur," came the command, and not for the first time, Arthur Pendragon wondered how his friend could be so infinitely humble and yet so _damnably authoritative _all at once.

The king clenched his jaw and very carefully climbed over to the empty spot between Merlin's cold form and the sturdy stone wall. The sorcerer's eyes followed him as he settled down, putting bare inches between them, propped on his elbow so that he could look clearly down into Merlin's gentle face.

Merlin was smiling softly, though most of it was lost in the paleness of his countenance. He opened his mouth to speak, but then, like a bolt striking him, he twisted beneath the blankets, striving to hold the agonized scream in his throat.

As a cry like a wounded dragon tore from Merlin, Arthur ground his teeth until he could feel the pain running in his temples, cursing himself and his inability to stop it, this fatal deficiency of magic, from tearing Merlin's body apart, to _stop it from hurting him_.

This attack lasted only a few seconds. Arthur was thankful for the pain to cease, but even so, he knew the shortening of its time could not be a sign of improvement.

Merlin relaxed again, his breathing slowing only slightly so that he continued to pant for air even after the jolts of pain died away. His hand reached up, shaking only slightly, the backs of cool fingers settling against Arthur's cheek. The look in his weary eyes as he gazed up at his friend was brighter and more open than it had ever been, so powerful Arthur knew he could never truly be good enough to deserve it…and yet, there it was, a glowing mixture of admiration and affection and _love_, shining brighter than the moon on the face of the fading sorcerer.

Though he had not shed one, Arthur knew Merlin, in all his wonder, could see the tears like liquid sorrow in the corners of the king's royal blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur," he said, and he truly looked so very sorry, as if Arthur was the one in pain…_.He was._ "I wish I hadn't had to do this. I really do."

As the king looked down into Merlin's eyes, feeling mesmerized and pitifully lost all at once, the fingers continued to stroke along the soft, blonde beard along Arthur's jaw.

* * *

"_Why are you growing a beard, Arthur?"_

"_I'm the king, Merlin. I have better things to do than keep up with my shaving. And while we're on the subject, why are _you_ growing one?"_

"_I'm the king's High Sorcerer. It's my image."_

"_You're an idiot, Merlin."_

"_I know, but you like me anyway."_

"_If I didn't, you'd be dead."_

"_So you admit it, then!"_

"_Merlin. Shut up."_

"_Yes, sire."_

* * *

Arthur smiled sadly. The Merlin before him now looked so frail and ancient now in comparison to that Merlin of only…had it really been five years ago when they had had that light and playful conversation as they poured through records in the castle library? Even in the midst of the tragedy, Arthur could not help but marvel at the years that had gone by since the beginning of this great venture. It seemed so distant in the past, that day he'd first caught sight of Merlin, walking alone on the street just outside the castle, with his hauntingly mystical face and that ridiculous neckerchief.

_But then,_ he thought, looking down at the polished silver button which held the habitual cloak securely around Merlin's lean neck, _perhaps it wasn't so long ago after all._

Arthur felt as though the room was darkening into death-shadows around him. After these many years of near-constant companionship, his perception of Merlin was about to change, for Merlin was going to be gone. He was going to leave him.

_Oh, gods, he couldn't leave him._

"There has to be something," he said, and it came out like a growl, startling Merlin, whose hand fell to his side and lay limply there, shaking atop the off-white blanket.

Arthur sat up, his entire body trembling with his barely-contained energy, eyes ablaze with that determination which had so long characterized him.

"There must be something, Merlin." Almost like a command. "Tell me what there is I can do to save you. The knights are just outside. I'll send them to the nearest town; they'll get whatever you need."

"Arthur…"

But the king refused to let him finish; he didn't want to hear it, didn't want Merlin's inarguable prophecy to reach his conscious mind, where he could not fight or deny it.

"Tell me, Merlin," he demanded, leaning toward the sorcerer in his agitation. "There has to be something…some spell we can use…"

"I have no magic, Arthur," Merlin told him with sad patience. "There is nothing you can do…."

"_Shut up, Merlin_!"

Merlin did, not because he feared the acid in the king's voice (for he had never actually been afraid of it, much to Arthur's frustration), but because he could hear the pure fright and stubborn defiance underlying every word. He could see it marring his master's tanned and still-handsome face, weeping in the tears he had yet to shed, glittering in the sapphire eyes.

The sorcerer—_former sorcerer_—inhaled shakily; the pain beat in his empty chest like endless thunder, but he ignored it doggedly and kept his attention focused on the man before him.

"I'm dying, Arthur," he whispered as kindly as he could, putting his hand over the king's heart, the closest place his hand could reach.

"No." Arthur shook his head, pushing Merlin's hand away gently. "You are not dying, Merlin. You will not die. You've saved me, and now I'll do the same. It's my obligation to do so, as a knight and as a man. I'll save you."

Desperation laced every word more powerfully than the last.

"You have no obligation to me," the sorcerer told him intently. "I told you once that I was happy to be your servant until the day I died. Now you know I wasn't lying."

"No…Merlin…"

"Don't you see, Arthur?"

The king raised his head from where it was bowed over his and Merlin's hands (which were still intertwined, for he had not let it go). It took his overwhelmed mind several heartbeats to realize Merlin was smiling, and it was one of his truly Merlin smiles, so much stronger and gladder than the faint one of before.

"Everything is finished now," he went on, his voice sounding oddly contented and heartrendingly acquiescent around the pain, his eyes continuing to shine as though he saw some wonderful thing that Arthur could not. "You are the king of Camelot, and the greatest one ever known in time past or ahead. You've brought prosperity and peace to the land beyond what any ruler has ever done before."

Arthur let go of Merlin's hand and clutched the old blankets in his fists so tightly that his fingers throbbed, for he had a dark suspicion that Merlin's mind could not be changed on this matter, and _Arthur had to change his mind_, for that was the only way it could be possible to save him. If Merlin just told him something he could do, some monster he could fight or spell he could mix, that would mean Merlin saw hope, and if Merlin hoped for a remedy, Arthur would do anything to make it real. _Anything._

"We've united Albion, you and I," Merlin continued, his bright eyes shining with pride for what they'd done as he watched Arthur, taking in every curve and line of his old friend's face, as if trying to rememorize each feature though he knew every one by heart. "We've set magic free in the world, Arthur. You have the respect of the Old Religion and the love of your people."

His eyes suddenly dimmed, his nails stabbing his palms and his brow furrowing as another wave of fiery agony struck him. Arthur pushed his hand beneath Merlin's, not holding it, exactly, but letting Merlin clasp his fingers until the pressure made his blood darken the tips. Merlin loosened his hold eventually, but he did not altogether let go, his long and graceful fingers wrapped lightly around Arthur's.

"I've done what I was meant to do, Arthur," he murmured, the light having faded slightly from his eyes but the joy lingering in the soft half-smile on his lips. "I've stayed with you and protected you; everything I have and everything I've done has been all for you." His eyes fell to the golden chain around Arthur's neck, to the generations-old amulet which distinguished the royalty of Camelot. "I made you king, just as I was destined to."

His fingers, still wrapped around Arthur's, raised up and brushed against the cold amulet. Arthur could not pull his eyes away from Merlin's face as his beloved advisor nearly glowed with memories of his extraordinary life…

…_a life which was now ending_; Arthur could not deny it now.

"I've fulfilled my destiny," came the quiet whisper, profound in the stillness of the place, pure awe touching every word, as if it was some stunning revelation. "I have no more tasks to complete. I've won."

Arthur could feel himself trembling from the sheer sensations emanating from Merlin's soul, which had so long been connected with his in an astronomically supernatural accord; a power entirely different from the bitter-sweet magic flooded the room. Merlin was happy. Here, in the last few minutes of his life, he had overcome the trauma and hardships which had tried so often to destroy him, and he was _happy_.

Arthur looked back over the decades in his own memory. He had endured much, but Merlin had so much more. He had watched unfeeling Death swoop down and steal those he loved from him—his fellowmen, his friends, even all the family he had…first his father, then his mother, and finally, perhaps the most painful of all, Gaius. He had seen horrible things worse than hell-born nightmares, and defeated evils no man should ever have to face.

And he had done it all for Arthur…always for Arthur. He had never lived for himself, or sought out happiness and tranquility away from the threats terrorizing him. He had gone through all the tortures and adversities the wicked world had to offer, and fought it all without fear. He had done it for Arthur.

And now, it was for Arthur that he held fast to life, enduring the pain, for again he ignored himself and kept Arthur safe for as long as he could from the grief they both knew was swiftly approaching.

Arthur ran his thumb along the cold hand around his own, watching the blue veins, now deficit of life-giving magic, winding beneath the flesh. His eyes caught sight of a white scar on the otherwise perfect wrist. It was only one of many.

Merlin had given everything for him. Who was he to demand more?

"You're right."

Merlin blinked, surprise flitting across his pale-gray face at the unexpectd, hoarse confession.

Arthur looked up, and one, lonely tear slid from his eye, marking the old mattress where it dropped. Merlin watched it fall, and said nothing.

"You're right, Merlin," he said again, and all the yet-unshed tears choked his throat.

Merlin remained silent, listening intently, as Arthur shifted so that he was close enough to him to see the flecks of purple lingering in his sorcerer's eyes.

"You've done everything for me," he whispered, intensely. "You've given your life to me, and never have you asked anything in return."

His hand, shaking more than Merlin's, brushed a strand of long, dark, silvery-flecked hair from gray-blue eyes, as the fire continued to die in silence beside the old bed.

"I need you, Merlin," he whispered, swallowing hard as another tear threatened to leak past his collapsing wall. "I will always need you. For as long as I live, there will never be a time when I don't want you with me. Surely you must know that."

He let his hand rest beside Merlin's head so that the tips of his fingers almost touched the strands of soft, dark hair arrayed over the old, cream-colored pillowcase. Arthur dropped his eyes, and Merlin could see the somber and painful emotions sweeping across the king's handsome face as he fought within himself. At long last, the silence was broken as Arthur took a trembling breath and spoke the words he dreaded with his whole being.

"But that is selfishness," he stated, every syllable like a knife to his heart. "I have had you for so many years all to myself, Merlin, and never have I done anything to deserve that."

He lowered his head again as another rebellious tear fell.

"You deserve peace now, Merlin." His voice was as soft as the gentle breeze outside, so obviously broken and yet so sincere. "After everything you've been through...after all the good you've done and all the light you've brought...to—" He choked, but resolutely continued. "—to me especially."

He raised his gaze again to meet Merlin's wide-eyed one, and neither spoke of the three more tears which fell.

"You deserve to be with your father and your mother, and Gaius," he murmured, his fingers moving to push another lock of hair from Merlin's sweat-beaded forehead. "You deserve to be rewarded in the presence of the gods for your triumph here. I cannot deny you that now, at the end of your fight, when you have done more than any other to earn it."

He raised his head, a new fire igniting his eyes even while it burned up his heart.

"I…" his voice broke, despite his efforts. "I release you from your guardianship of me, Merlin. You are free."

A single, glimmering tear rolled unhurriedly down Merlin's cheek, even as a deep-rooted fear darkened his pale, pale face.

Arthur smiled at the familiar apprehension, and touched Merlin's shoulder.

"I'll be fine, Merlin," he reassured, even while his mind argued forcibly that he would not be…_how could he ever be?_ "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself for a little while, you know; I'm not entirely helpless."

The smirk had returned, only for a moment, and then it disappeared again.

"You must understand, Arthur," came the solemn whisper, heavy with emotion and pleading for understanding. "I am not leaving because I want to go."

Arthur felt his heart sink lower. Truly this was the end.

"I am leaving," Merlin went on, "because I'm being forced away." His hand touched Arthur's face again, and the conviction of his voice burned into the king's memory forever. "My place is, and always will be, at your side. It does not matter if I am merely in another room or in another world; even should my soul be in paradise, I will never stop thinking that I should be with you, here."

His eyes lingered tiredly around the frigid, shadowed room, then returned to Arthur's face, where his fingers continued to touch, feather-light, at the tender place in front of Arthur's ear.

"I'll never stop _wanting_ to be with you." It was a promise, pure and sure as sunrise. "You have a part of me, sire, and I will not forget that when we are apart. You must remember that when I am gone."

Arthur bent his head down, hiding two more tears in the dark hair, smelling the odd, floral aroma that had always been Merlin. There had been a bitter, fragrant, and powerful trace in the scent, but now it was gone, for Merlin's magic had been drained from every corner of him.

Merlin said nothing, only turned his head to touch his cheek against Arthur's, and smiled as he thought of how the man would have been appalled at his own behavior in those early days.

As he lay there in the embrace of his king, quietly he hoped with all his soul that though he had said little for his dying strength, his words would be enough to convince Arthur of this truth: whether it was planned from the dawn of time or if it was a miracle in itself, it mattered little from where his love came or how it began. He had been born with the power of Emrys to return magic to Albion; his was the destiny which lay wrapped together with Arthur's, and his magic had been the sole reason for their bond. Even so, now that his task had been completed and the power of Emrys vanished, the bond was not broken, for while Emrys existed only to free magic and bring peace to Albion, Merlin had chosen to exist only for the man who was his cohort in this calling.

After the magic was freed in the world and the Old Religion was eternally satisfied, he never left, for he never ceased believing it was yet his place and his alone to be at Arthur's side, to guard him and guide him and _love_ him with all he had. It was no longer by the power of the Old Religion that he felt this way, he realized now, but it had become of his own, free will. His soul had been wrapped around Arthur's in a permanent harmony. Though it had never been foretold by the ancients, his destiny made him Arthurs in body, mind, and spirit.

Though his magic no more felt a bond, his heart forever would.

Merlin felt the weight of his king beside him, and could feel him mourning for him, and he was never gladder that he hadn't left, for who could he have found to love him so strongly as Arthur did?

The king kept his face beside Merlin's, feeling the fading warmth of the sorcerer's slim body beside his, and for what felt like hours, he felt as though he was lost within his own mind. It was as if he was in that strange state just before one falls asleep; he was thinking of something, he was sure, but each coherent thought was lost from one moment to the next. Only one root thought stood out, the source of all the other spinning images and memories and feelings.

_Merlin._

He was all Arthur could see, all he could think of, all he could _feel_. Merlin was everything.

Merlin was dying, and it was devastating him, distorting him like some mind-numbing poison, making his mind as blurred as his vision. He could not reconcile the torturous truth, could not force himself to accept that Merlin was leaving him, not when he could smell his scent and feel his warmth and hear his breathing all around him, not when he was so used to it all being there always.

At long last, something tugged urgently on his attention, and he lifted his head to see the firelight was dwindling to nothingness, and the pale hand resting consolingly on his arm was barely shaking any longer. The gentle face was looking away from him now, toward the dying flame, the murky eyes fluttering rapidly and blearily as long shadows danced in the contours beneath his cheekbones and turned his soft hair an inky black.

Merlin was fighting. Even so close and so exhausted, he was still fighting to remain with Arthur.

The king felt his own self-pity further reduced by his love for this man, _this extraordinary man_. He knew it was time for him to let him finally go, no matter how much it would wound him…_and, oh, how it would_…Merlin should not have to hold on any longer for his sake.

Arthur leant down, and though he feared it would, his voice did not tremble as he whispered into Merlin's ear.

"Go in peace, Merlin." He felt it when Merlin tensed, listening. "But never forget who you are. You are Merlin of Ealdor, son of the Dragonlord Balinor."

Fingers twitched, and he could see the dim light glinting off the silver ring on Merlin's right hand. (1)

"You're High Sorcerer of the Court of Camelot," he murmured, eyes locked upon the symbol etched into the silver of the band, "advisor to the King, hero to all."

The words of the great dragon Kilgarrah drifted through his memory. _The warlock of legend…_

"You're the Emrys," he said the omnipotent name with quiet wonder, feeling so small and insignificant with reverence at it, "the immortal."

"The idiot."

Though Merlin was too weak to speak now, Arthur still heard the humor in the mouthed words, and he huffed on a laugh despite himself. How like his sorcerer to remind him that no matter what the world might declare or how he would be revered, Merlin saw himself as none of those things, but only as a clumsy servant of the king, as his over-talkative and over-sensitive companion. _As his friend._

"The greatest there ever was," he agreed with his whole heart.

Merlin's breath stuttered on his own chuckle.

Arthur settled beside him again, let his arm lie across him like a protection, his lashes tickled by dark hair, sharing his warmth with Merlin as though it would share his strength as well.

But he could not, and he could feel the life of his friend—_his other half_—draining away with each passing second, so as the room grew colder and as he could feel it all ending around him, he pressed himself against his friend's side and put his mouth against his ear.

"_I love you, Merlin_."

And though it had been a silent understanding between them for these many, many years, to admit it aloud, to let the words ghost from his lips to Merlin's heart, _the last true unfinished aspiration_, felt like the lifting of a years-old burden.

Merlin, whose eyes were shut and breathing scarce, gathered his falling strength and pushed his fingers—the middlemost bearing the silver ring—between his king's, a silent binding, and Arthur could nearly hear the words drifting between them.

_And I you, Arthur._

He would remember it always, would lock those four words away in his heart. This knowledge, that Merlin, who could destroy evil with a single word, and control dragons with a motion of his hand, and make anyplace beautiful with his mere presence, and who was the kindest and gentlest soul in the world, _loved_ him…this would be his strength in the coming time of shadows and lonesomeness.

And when he opened his eyes the following morning to silence, those four words were the first thought in his mind as he felt the coldness beside him and knew it was over.

**To be continued**

* * *

(1) See Epilogue of my fic, _Through Golden Eyes_, for info about the ring.

* * *

_So...how about it? I think I pretty much have my mind made up, but I'd like to know who wants Merlin to come back and who wants him to stay dead in the next chappie.  
And thank you all so much for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_I just want to thank everyone who read and reviewed Chapter I. I honestly didn't expect to get a big reaction, since this fic is set so far into the future. I'm glad you liked it anyway, though...and I apologize in advance, but I really am glad it made you cry...mostly because that lets me know I wasn't the only one who felt sad at the thought of Merlin dying. It eases the awkward, obsessive-fangirl guilt I suffer._

* * *

**Chapter II**

Death was heartless. Death was cruel. Death was violent.

Death showed no mercy, withheld no pain, cared not for the innocence of any soul. Death was horrifying. Death was disturbing. Death was ugly.

He had seen too much of it not to believe this.

And yet, the death before him now was none of these things. The death his eyes beheld and his fingers caressed and his heart consumed was not horrifying or disturbing. It was peaceful.

It was _beautiful_, and the sight of it was worse than any hellish demise he had witnessed in all his violent life.

This death was divine.

It was heartrending.

Arthur scarcely knew that his hand was shaking as his palm ghosted against the cold cheek, could barely comprehend it when he turned the gentle face toward himself and saw the lifeless features which had so short a time ago been bright and dancing with humor and affection.

He pulled his hand from beneath the heavy one, feeling each icy finger slide from between his own as he let it go. The ring left an indention in his flesh where it had been pressed against it. He wished its mark would never fade.

He let the marble cheek rest in his palm while the fingers of his other hand smoothed against ebony-silver locks, even so as he yearned with his whole being for the eyes to open and peer up at him, thinking in some euphoric part of his mind how like a true angel Merlin looked now, with the dull-white rays of the winter dawn pouring in through the tiny, barred window upon his pale countenance. He seemed to be glowing, and for the briefest moment, Arthur wondered if this was how he looked in his new life, in whatever heaven where he abided now.

He imaged Merlin's smile must be breathtaking in such light.

His eyes stung, and he did not try to fight the burning emotions now, merely let the tears come as they would, for Merlin was gone, and with him went half of everything Arthur was. There was no trace of the light remaining within his heart to give him hope, no fraction left of the strength and courage which had so long fortified him, no piece of his soul lingering that had been bound to Merlin's since the beginning of his existence...He had never realized exactly how much of them was merged together; half his very being felt empty, and he wondered if this was how he was _supposed_ to feel, how he would have felt if he had never had Merlin, how everyone felt who had no Merlin.

As though he was within a dream, he continued to his somnolent stroking of the soft hair from Merlin's face like it was an inborn instinct, leaning down so that he could press his lips against the cold forehead, almost reverently, as if Merlin's cool body was something delicate and broken. It was almost a gesture of formality, an indication of the tradition all of humankind must eventually learn.

_Goodbye._

The word was like a knife stabbing the half of him that remained alive, wounding it further, _making it weaker_.

Goodbye was final. Goodbye meant the end—the end of long days of sitting in the west wing of the castle and watching Merlin cast spell after spell for nothing more than Arthur's amusement. It meant the end of long talks about taxes and laws and traditions which turned ever-so-quickly into a game of childish insults and light jests. It meant the end of overlong banquets which he only endured without complaint for Merlin's sitting beside him and murmuring witty remarks in his ear about the obviously ridiculous customs of the court.

It meant the end of their tireless fight against evil, of their standing side-by-side, him with his sword and Merlin with his voice—an unshakeable union. It meant the end of understanding eyes and listening ears and kind smiles, of ceaseless banter and steadfast alliance and every one of those tender moments when Arthur needed Merlin, and when Merlin needed Arthur, and somehow they overcame their clumsy tendencies and were, _always,_ everything the other could ever need to survive.

Goodbye meant the end of his silent, inward concern that Merlin would someday realize how truly wonderful he was, and would leave Camelot in pursuit of better dreams, to find all the happiness he had missed in his dark and turbulent days; it meant the end of Merlin's somehow knowing, and telling him in words sweet and true that he would never leave his side, not for a better life, not for an escape to peace,

"_...not for anything_, _Arthur. I would not leave you. I will always watch over you; I promise you this, sire. You will never have to feel alone."_

The first sob tore out of him of its own accord, and he felt his head spinning as he buried his face against Merlin's cheek and let the sorrow take him. He cared not at all for his once-domineering pride as he wrapped his arms around the narrow shoulders and let his tears souse the indigo cloak, his body pressed against Merlin's empty one, clutching him as though he would never let go, for if he did he would have to do so forevermore.

_He couldn't. He couldn't let go. Not yet...not yet..._

Arthur could see nothing but darkness, could not restrain the wild, comfortless, wretched despair which overtook him without mercy. He could not piece together any coherent thought; _he did not want to_, for he knew he would only think of of his mistakes, his faults, his guilt. He would remember every moment when a flash of hurt darkened Merlin's bright eyes, of every time when he betrayed him and wounded him without intent. He would wish he had done so much differently, told him the true reason why he grew enraged when Merlin was missing from his side for more than a day, why he threw him from his chambers with orders to _stay out until morning_ when he looked unwell or weary, why he tortured him daily with his teasing and his pressing as an inadequate attempt to show his admiration for Merlin's courage and wisdom.

He would think of the now eternally silent physician's chambers, and of the bottles and books and herbs worn with use, and of the great dragons who would be awaiting the return of their lord.

He would think of the darkness which would settle upon his world at the death of the light-giving Emrys, of cheerless mornings and mirthless days and long nights spent without comfort. He would think of overwhelming burdens and mundane assemblies and lonely suppers. He would think of someone else, someone new, someone _not Merlin_, choosing his clothes for the day and asking with lack of heartening sincerity _"What more do you need me to do, sire?"_

He would think only of what would be gone, of the absence of that constant, steady presence which he had come to want and need and _crave_ like nothing else.

Arthur could not bear to think on any of it, could do nothing but seek the warmth and refuge of his protector and feel the strange helplessness when he could not find it. For the first time in his trying life, Arthur Pendragon did not try to be courageous or valiant in the face of hardship, for this was a hardship from which he knew he could never wholly recover.

Instead, he wept.

Arthur wept for Merlin.

* * *

It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours, before a sound slipped past his grief and reached his ears. Exhaustedly, he raised his head and with searing eyes saw five silent figures steal into the room, all halting immediately in their steps as they took in the scene before them—of their strong and bold king with eyes rimmed with red, face drained of all color, pure heartbreak obvious in his every feature—and none of them said anything, only bowed their heads in mourning for the man whom they had all come to cherish.

But none of them so much as the king himself.

Arthur pulled himself up, arms shaking under his own weight, tears finally abating, leaving him hollow and cold. He leant down and pressed one, last kiss to the temple, feeling then coldness of it against his lips. He ran his hands once more over the pure face to the sharp shoulders, forcing himself to sit despite the pounding of his head and the brokenness of his heart.

The knights watched as Arthur stroked another strand of long, dark hair from Merlin's face, knowing the touch would not disturb him, but feeling hopeless all the same when the lids did not so much as flutter.

A margin of warmth danced under the king's fingertips, barely present, only lingering. If he remained still, and held his breath so that there was no cloud of it in the chilled air, he could almost—_almost_—believe that his precious sorcerer was merely sleeping, his mind lost in some magic-born dream from which he would soon awaken, and his eyes would take a comically long time to clear, and then he would blink up at Arthur with a curiously ironic look at the uncommon love evident in his king's gaze.

That could never be so, however, and, slowly and deliberately, Arthur took in the tiny rivers of silver in the dark and disarrayed hair, the porcelain forehead now freed from any lines of pain or stress, the strange and mysterious slant of the closed eyes, the sharpness of the cheekbones, the softness of the mouth...He rehearsed every detail before him over and over again in his mind, so that even when he was on his own deathbed and could not remember that he was once a great warrior and had been a greater king, when he could not remember his mother or his father or even Guinevere, he would always remember how Merlin looked while he slept. He would never forget it, and in his last moment of life, this would be the picture in his mind—his Merlin, _his angel_, innocent and peaceful.

Resting at last.

* * *

They took the shovels from sympathetic farmers and silversmiths in the nearby village, who, upon hearing the name, knew immediately how highly the dead man was regarded by the whole of influential Camelot. Even so distant a land was not untouched by stories and legends of the majestic sorcerer who had changed the king's heart and given magic back to Albion.

Some of the women looked into Arthur's eyes and offered him a warm meal. He declined.

Merlin was buried in a wide, snow-covered field outside the town, where the sun would shine in the summer, and the mountains would glisten in the sky, and purple wildflowers would bloom by the glorious thousands. It was stupid a notion, perhaps, but Arthur could not help but imagine Merlin would prefer a field of flowers to the damp evergreen forest where he had died.

That afternoon, they left the place forever.

As his horse carried him farther away, back to the home that truly _was not_ home now, Arthur clutched the scratched silver ring in his fist as though it was his most valuable possession.

**To be continued**

* * *

_So the reason this chappie is a little shorter is because..._Surprise!_ Due to my womanly inability to make up my mind, there will be two endings to this fic. In the following one, Merlin will remain dead (but I'll do my best to make it a happy ending anyway, I promise!), and in the alternate one, he'll return and that will _definitely_ be a happy ending for all of us. (Who could ever want Merlin to die, anyway? Even Morgana adores him; she just pretends not to for the sake of the legend. I know she does.)  
__(Also, see Note 3 in the Epilogue of my fic _Through Golden Eyes_!)_


	3. Chapter 3

_So sorry for the delay. All I can say is that eleventh-grade chemistry will _never_ be invited to any of my parties. Ugh.  
I know this chapter is a little short to have taken so long, and I really am sorry for that. The next chapter will be quicker...possibly...maybe...I hope.  
Anyway, here I give you the first ending, in which Merlin stays dead, though hopefully it won't be too heartrending...if Merlin's dying could ever _not_ be heartrending, that is.  
I love you all, as you know, and thank you so much for every single review; I cherish each one I get!_

* * *

**Chapter III**

Guinevere let only three tears fall.

The first when the double doors opened and her king entered. Her soft brown eyes beheld him unwounded and _alive_ and she rushed without dignity to him from the throne where she had sat for weeks in worry and threw her arms around him and inhaled his earthen scent, and a single tear of joy fell.

The second when she finally released him, and she started around him to greet Merlin—_who was always just behind Arthur_—with a smile of gratitude and a warm embrace, only to find him absent from the familiar faces of the men...faces now darkened with death-shadows which spoke the words none of them could find the courage to say, and a single tear of sorrow fell.

The third that night, when Arthur lay curled in her arms like a broken child, too exhausted to weep, too mournful to rest, murmuring reflections in a voice almost distant—reflections of times past, of the life and love of which he was now suddenly and cruelly deprived, and she remembered that fact which she had long-since accepted—that there was a bond between them that she could never hope to comprehend or rivalize, and that there must be nothing more terrible than the loss of that, and a single tear of compassion fell.

It fell and landed on Arthur's cheek, and he touched it with a hand trembling with fatigue, and murmured something tiredly to Merlin about how many years he had brought gladness and comfort, and now it was because of him that so many were suffering, and how hateful and _wrong_ that was, and she whispered in return, _"We miss you, Merlin."_

Neither of them noticed the silver ring on a chain around Arthur's neck reflect something invisible beside them.

* * *

Arthur nearly did not attend the formal ceremony. Smoke, black and choking, billowed from the center of Camelot to the heavens to reach the nostrils of the gods, so that they might know the sufferings of their creation. Only in duty did he endure it, surrounded by silent mourners like eerie, hooded statues bearing candles whose pinpoints of light seemed so insignificant in the roaring fire around which they stood.

His mind was clouded, perhaps, but he almost found it ironic, for that was exactly the way Merlin had been amidst all other men—his light had always been so much brighter than any other.

Merlin would have been the one to organize it, had it been someone else; it being himself, however, he would have only said it was silly to go through all the trouble of building a pyre when they didn't even have a body to burn upon it.

Arthur remained strong until the first agonized roar of a dragon cut through the stillness, echoing over the whole of the city as the majestic creatures circled in the blackened air above, and then he could bear it no longer.

Gwen did not follow him when he turned away from the balcony's rail without a word.

* * *

Arthur could smell the burning wood and incense even in the confinement of their room; the milky light of day, though still shining softly through the clear window behind his writing desk, was being steadily suffocated by the black smoke, which pulled itself up like a shadow across everything in its way to the skies. The room was too quiet without Merlin pattering around_...much too quiet...How could he live in a place this quiet?_...

He felt his knees trembling beneath him, and he buried his face in his hands as the broken chorus of dragons' wails tore through the atmosphere and threatened to shatter what little resolve he had built up again with their palpable sorrow.

He felt his throat constrict with tears, and he swallowed them forcefully down. He was not one to weep over nearly anything, and he felt he had done too much of it in the past days to be considered excusable..._though he knew in his heart no amount of weeping would ever be enough_.

When he came to himself again, it reached him for the first time that the world around him somehow felt...shifted. The woeful clamor of the dragons was cut off from his hearing; the stench of burning wood and perfume dissipated from the air, leaving it clean and pure. He felt the strange, cool-warm light of the day bathe his right side from the window. It was as though all inside the four walls had been lifted to a place far from the grief below.

A sensation struck him softly, seeming to slide through him straight to his very heart; it felt like magic—like the very magic which had been with him always but was no more. It was like a drop of rain after a year of drought.

Then he lifted his face and beheld the figure leant with otherworldly grace against his writing-table, and he thought that surely his grief had turned to madness...and then he cared not if it had; he could only watch, breathless and aghast at the image before him.

The rays of the day stretched like an all-consuming halo around the fair being, the soft, alabaster glow seeming to liquify within the eyes, making them swirl over carved cheekbones like the waters of the Lake of Avalon after a rainstorm. Dark, dark hair fell only slightly across the marble forehead, cut short as that of a servant, and the thin blue shirt hung loosely under the fawn jacket as though it was too large on the petite frame. The vividness of the red neckerchief was only eclipsed by the radiant smile which grew wider as the sorrow faded from the king's disposition to be replaced by pure, untainted _wonder_.

It was the most glorious of visions, he thought, just as the beautiful paintings the warlocks of the Old Religion once created in honor of the prophesied _Emrys_; though the old ones portrayed the coming sorcerer as magnificent, with the age of eons defining his very aura and hair like winter's snow, the great and divine Emrys looked as none of these expectations. This Merlin was not timeworn or shaken. He was not old or weary or seasoned in appearance by trials and pains.

This Merlin was wholesome and spirited again, strong and young, with only the eyes—_those eyes!_—old enough to illustrate the tales of an ancient soul within.

This was the boy Arthur first glimpsed that fateful day in Camelot, innocent and audacious.

_Alive._

* * *

Guinevere was inexpressibly relieved that her husband did not fall to his grief, but that he remained courageous and strong of heart even after the kingdom ceased to mourn and the castle returned to its old habits, leaving him to do without his trusted adviser and friend in the final closure of his life's days.

Arthur would never tell her—would never tell anyone—but _he was there_.

Merlin was there. _Merlin was with him_. He could feel him; he could _see_ him—sometimes, when the days felt so dark and the hours so long, he would enter his chambers at twilight, and Merlin would be there, standing almost as transparent as a vapor, barely visible, but _there_ all the same, watching him with a gaze almost longing. He would blink and Merlin would be gone, but not before he smiled. Never before.

He would walk through the castle, and he would pass an open door or another hall, and he would just barely catch the glimpse of storm-colored eyes and a _ridiculous_-looking neckerchief, and he would look back and there would be no one, but he knew..._he always knew_.

He would awaken to the sound of the curtains being rolled back, and see through his lids the brightness of a new dawn, and then he would feel the cool hand on his arm, gently petting him awake, and he would open his eyes and see only the light, but no sign of any manservant or maid who could have let it in.

In the flickering of a candle's flame by nonexistent breath, in the shadow which would dash playfully out of his sight, in the gentle fingers pressing between his shoulders when his strength began to wane...Merlin was there.

Merlin never left him.

* * *

On the dark days when he was loneliest, when not even the tender touch of his queen could ease his mind, Arthur would sit quietly, toy with the worn silver ring between his fingers as it hung always around his neck, and remember Merlin's smile—the very one he recalled most clearly as adorning his young servant's face when he rescued the then-prince from the vile serpents in the castle of the Fisher King so many decades before. It was that smile which heartened him more than anything and became so quickly one of his greatest joys.

And when he fell into his final slumber on a quiet summer's night, it was that smile he saw first when he opened his eyes and became _alive_ again.

**The End**

* * *

_I hope I didn't jump around too much. This was how it flowed when I imagined it, so I hope I got all the good points across like I wanted. I won't know 'til you review though, my dears. *winkhint* And no worries, because the second ending will be coming soon; just ignore that The End up there. *hehe*  
Oh, and yes, I am sixteen, and I'm a Christian, but I do dress up for Halloween every year just because it's fun to pretend to be someone you're not (every once in a while; don't do it every day; that's just weird). This year I was Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, and just out of my random sense of curiosity, what were you? :)_


	4. Chapter 3 AU

_Wow. I don't even know what to say. Thirty reviews, and I'm rude enough to be this late on my update. I've had it done for three days now, but I've been editing. And go figure, this was supposed to be the shortest chapter of all but ended up being almost as long as the longest one. Heh.  
I'm sure you all would love to see Merlin rise from the dead now, but there is one thing I think I might need to explain about this story. I think that, if things keep going the way they are now in the show, Arthur emotionally will __be equally dependent on Gwen and Merlin by the end; so if Merlin died now, he could probably refrain from being totally broken by it with Gwen's help. But while I like the idea of their being married, I have to say that I have no idea where their relationship will end up, especially since I hear say that next season will feature an Arthur-Gwen-Lancelot love triangle. Long story short, in my foresight, Arthur and Gwen might stay married and love each other still, but something to do with Lancelot will likely come between them and mess up their relationship permanently. Merlin is the only person in the whole world who has never once let him down, and so that's why he's so torn up by his death. I hope that's believeable. And do forgive the boringness of this Author's note. I'm feeling a bit lazy since I've spent all day observing restless tigers and counting stick-bugs (which is_ really_ hard to do when they're all in one, tiny tank; whose idea was that anyway?). I think my fingers still smell like snake scales..._

* * *

**Chapter III ([Very] Alternate Ending)**

It was angry.

From the beginning of everything, it had chosen him. Only him. For his purity and virtue, for the warmth and light of his precious soul which gleamed across the ocean of time, it had chosen him. His soul was like a voice enticing it and drawing it unto him with a call so sweet and rich and _good_, calling out and glowing so much clearer and brighter than any other soul of mankind throughout all the eons to come.

It loved him, even before he lived.

His life would be short, so very short, compared to the time it waited for him. It was immortal, _the Emrys_, but he was only a man. His time would come and go, and then his soul would journey to the next life. It was not meant to go with him, but it would, for it loved him. It loved him, and it loved their King, and with them, it would go anywhere.

Now, it was not with him. It was in a place so dark and cold and lonely, trapped within a soul like ice and stone. Where had once been Merlin's light, it could see nothing; where it once heard Arthur's voice, there was only silence.

It had been stolen. Stolen away from them both by this filthy creature, unraveled so suddenly from Merlin's soul and dragged so violently from Arthur's passion. It was being used, like tinder for a flame, drained and exhausted for no worthy purpose, serving no cause but to bestow more energy upon the hell-demon.

This was not how it was meant to be. This was not their destiny.

It waged war upon the beast, struggling and thrashing within her, but she was a creature of the oldest magic herself, and so not even its most brutal and powerful efforts would weaken her.

It despised her, more and more with each passing hour.

It wanted Merlin. It _needed_ Merlin, and it needed Arthur; it needed for them to be together, and without Merlin's goodness to embrace it and Arthur's strength to surround it, it became magic no more. It was but pure poison, dark as blood and cruel as a two-edged sword, transformed by its anger at the loss of them.

It rejoiced the day it finally infected the monster's heart, and she collapsed upon the damp forest floor, setting it free.

It seeped from her nostrils like a ghostly current, changing from terrible, shifting red to the loveliest, deepest purple as it left her, glimmering shards of gold as it traveled through the magic woven into the air. The closer it came to where he was, the more the red dissipated from it and was replaced by the beautiful purple and gold which it was always meant to be.

When it reached him, it found him held within the ground, beneath a field of purple wildflowers which bristled in the summer air. He was dead. Merlin was dead without it, and it mourned in the vision of its precious keeper's writhing in the agony he was sure to have felt before he died, and in the suffering it could feel their King enduring even in that very moment, somewhere.

It hovered silently in time, as nothing but a barely-visible glimmer in the mid-day sunbeams, seeking out Arthur's spirit over the vast expanse of space between them. Even from so very far away (_too far, much too far…_), it could feel the noble King suffer, his good spirit yearning for its other half, pure heart yearning for his friend.

It felt the earthly magic in the air whispering with sadness, for the entirety of the world had felt it when Arthur and Merlin were separated, and it cried out in its own form of grief, shimmering with near-transparency in the air, resolving with the fierceness of an enraged lion within its own will that it would heal them. It would use every ounce of its strength to _heal them_.

So as the warm summer breeze tickled the purple petals all around, it sunk into the damp earth and suffused the lifeless body, drawing the lost spirit unto itself, to give him peace and comfort again so that he might give the same to their King.

* * *

When the sun was filling the sky with its vibrant dreams and stars were just beginning to awaken in the west, an aged man with a paling beard and eyes like the sea found himself sitting upon soft grass and surrounded by multitudes of purple flowers.

His long, gentle hand touched one close to him, almost curiously, as though he was not sure if he was dreaming or awake himself. His chin rested in his palm as he waited, patiently, for something, and for a long moment, there was not a sound but for the soft, early summer's breeze…

Then, from somewhere far and secret, a broken call echoed within his very soul, entrancingly familiar in its soundless voice but frighteningly, unfairly lonely. He raised his storm-blue eyes to the hill before him, to the tops of the lush, green trees which blocked his view to the way home.

He rose steadily to his feet and began to make his way toward the hill, toward the core of that desperate cry, and never once did he notice the patch of flowerless earth upon which he had been sitting, or see the single stone placed there by sorrowed knights of Camelot to mark the place as sacred. His eyes were hard and determined, looking only ahead, and his step quick and sure, for nothing else mattered but that he reach the one calling for him.

_Arthur was calling for him_, and so he ran_._

* * *

It was nearly the harvest season by the time Arthur felt strong enough again to return entirely to his duties. There was spirit missing from him which he could never get back no matter how long he rested, but his exhaustion and fragility was minimized, at least, so that he might forget almost completely about the empty part of him and go on with the remainder of his life with the same resolve with which he had always lived...be it ever weaker and his eyes more weary.

He sat quietly upon his throne, listening to the latest news of the council from the report of its elderly delegate as the man read from his cracking scroll, his voice clear and concise in the respectful silence of the room.

Arthur hoped deeply that Guinevere was listening enough his monotone and incredibly boring list of complaints, for his mind was constantly wandering, as Merlin had long taken the responsibility of always keeping note of these long meetings so that the restless king wouldn't have to.

He cut off that thought like with a sharp blade; it seemed as though, no matter how he tried, he could not cease from being reminded of his friend in everything. There was not even a hall of the castle through which he could walk without missing that steady presence beside him.

The other members of the court were watching him; he could feel their eyes upon him, still so sympathetic even after the many months. He would have been irritated by it, were it not that he could see the pain on his own face when he looked into the mirror and knew it must certainly be obvious to others as well. He knew also that he should loathe it, this feeling of weakness which pulled at his every piece, body and soul, and he would have in earlier years, but he was timeworn, and seasoned, and he saw little point anymore in detesting something he could neither control nor deny.

It was on the very last toll of the noon hour that a faint sound, carried on the wind from the moving square below, drifted through the open windows of the room on the early autumn air.

The delegate halted mid-sentence, his over-large head tilting to one side as more noise joined the first—shouting, men's voices, indistinct but unmistakable, and then a clatter as of full armor striking the stone ground all at once.

There was something close by, Arthur realized with a jolt through his whole body, his back straightening and his face alighting for the first time in months with that old, familiar fire which always had fueled his courage and will.

There was someone approaching them…someone with magic. He could feel the intensity of it deep in his chest, the distant echoes drifting to the tiny bit of ancient magic which was held there, like an ocean's waves barely licking at shore. This magic was powerful, so very powerful, but while there was intent to the most narrow and relentless degree, no darkness could he feel in it, only a strange sort of tenacity….

Guinevere's delicate hand tensed where it was encircled by his own, and he rested his other hand upon the hilt of Excalibur where it sat in wait for use against the side of his throne.

Muffled exclamations in the hall just outside, and a dull roar of murmurings erupted amongst the court which he scarcely noticed for the many prospects arising in his own mind of what it may be that came for him; of course, it was coming for him. They always did. Perhaps, he thought with some despondence, this was the one who would finish him, now that he was alone….

The oak doors were thrown open with more force than a man's strength alone could compel.

A cloaked figure entered, and his very presence shook Arthur's every instinct twice as powerfully as any wicked monster ever had. Magic, cool and sharp with its bittersweet scent, filled his nostrils, and he could almost see it in the air, swirling around the stranger in shards of shimmering blues and purples and gold. His fist tightened around his treasured sword, all thoughts driven away of himself as he prepared his sharpened mind and tensed body to meet the challenge of this sorcerer, whether he or she be dangerous or peaceable in his presence.

It took his overwrought mind all of three seconds to recognize the curve of narrow shoulders beneath the slightly faded, indigo cloak.

Excalibur fell, its perfect blade clattering to the stone floor, and not a living thing in the room moved at the commotion it created, some eyes watching the hooded figure and some watching the king, all waiting expectantly with labored breaths.

The newcomer removed his hood from where it cast a dark shadow over his face, and the penetrating blue of old eyes served to steal the very oxygen from every lung; the shining eyes darted about the room only once, as though to ensure that all was well, before fastening upon Arthur's face, bright and unblinking, the way a child who has awoken with a nightmare gazes at a loved one, afraid to look away for even the barest of moments for fear that he may disappear if he does.

Guinevere suppressed a tiny cry, instinctively pulling her hand from Arthur's to press it against her lips, caramel eyes wide with a mixture of wonderment and sparse fear at the impossibility of what was present before them.

Arthur's mind was nearly numb for an instant, but then, he forced slow, deliberate breaths into his lungs so that he might remain steady and unaffected.

There were a great many wicked sorcerers, witches, and all manner of creature within the five kingdoms now, and any one of them could know of his heartrending loss, for word had spread like a fire in dry brush of the death of Albion's beloved high sorcerer. Any of the most adept magic-practitioners could have changed their form to the eye of the beholder, could have made themselves appear like the Emrys to trick him and infiltrate the castle, as so many had tried to do before. It could be anyone standing before him, he told himself as firmly as if he was barking an order to his knights, anyone's eyes locked upon his own so intently, anyone's magic bleeding into the air for him to inhale like sunshine after so many weeks of darkness….It could be _anyone…_but not Merlin…_not Merlin_…

"Arthur."

Though so quiet, the single word pulled him harshly from his reverie and only diminished his hopes further, for it was so much, _so much_ like Merlin's voice, and surely it couldn't be, for he had felt Merlin die beside him, felt it when the magic had left them both cold and empty, and watched as his knights piled the filthy dirt atop the clean purple of that ever-familiar cloak.

He stood, unwaveringly, and swiped up his ageless sword from where it had fallen beside him, never breaking the stunning, silvery gaze of the sorcerer, though whether it was by choice that he did not pull his eyes from the other's or whether it was because he simply could not force himself to look away, not even he was certain.

The sorcerer started to step towards him, one hand reaching out toward the eminent king as though he was to speak to him, but then halted when Arthur closed the little distance between them.

From such scant inches apart, the distrust and uncertainty in Arthur's eyes was clear as daybreak, and yet, this sorcerer showed no true fear, only watched the other man for a long moment with piercing eyes, his face soft and filled with an emotion almost indefinable as he beheld the paleness of ill health and lines of pain marring the handsomeness of the king's own face.

Arthur felt his expression waver in the strikingly familiar appraisement, and for one, brief moment, he was almost taken in by the feelings which had been but memories for so long—feelings of security, of affection, the same which he always felt upon one of those times when Merlin could see past whichever mask he wore, whether it be anger or indifference or pride, could see the drained and fragile man beneath, and did not judge him for it, but only became all the more loyal and caring for him to bring about his triumph. A wish flitted across the near-unconscious of his mind—a faint, distant notion that perhaps, even if this Merlin was not his own, he could keep him nonetheless, just to feel less lost every day, until he could be with the true Merlin again, if nothing else….

Then, the strange and irrational thoughts dissipated as he realized the sorcerer was reaching again for him with one, pale hand, and he clutched his sword in readiness for whatever may come, his eyes hardening like stone as quickly as they had begun to relent.

A small, inspiriting smile, so perfect that it twisted his stomach, formed silently on the fair face of the stranger; somehow, it eased his mind, though he knew it was only for the comforting memories the sight inspired. Then, before he could decide how he should react, the sorcerer tentatively touched the base of his throat.

He never let his eyes move from watching the mystical face, his breathing quick and deep as the logic of his mind battled the longing of his heart, and despite his inner turmoil, he was as still as an ancient oak as the sorcerer tugged at the chain around his neck. The silver ring came forth from beneath his red tunic, its coating still reflecting the sun's rays from the windows, despite the scratches marring it.

Tender eyes like frozen seawater flitted up.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you," came the light and whimsical murmur, "that it's rude to take things that don't belong to you?"

He clenched his jaw at the apparent effortlessness of the drollery—the same of which had captivated his attention from that very first meeting so many, many years ago—and he reminded himself that this could _not be his Merlin_, that the glow of fondness alighting the porcelain face was no more than trickery of the cruelest degree, that his Merlin was gone, buried dead in a field far away, void of magic and life because he had given it all for Arthur, given it all _to_ Arthur, and he could never return, no matter how the king wished it in his heart.

As though it were epidemic, the dark shadow which fell over Arthur's haggard face spread to the sorcerer's as well, visibly chasing away the humor from him and transforming his aura to understanding compassion and insightful empathy.

"Merlin is dead."

The abrupt words, so hard and unfeeling, caused the sorcerer to raise his head in startlement and incomprehension.

Arthur's gaze was as cold as his voice, but there was fragility dwelling in the sapphire depths, and sorrow which made the beautiful blue of them ever deeper; though he was valiantly trying to masquerade it, it was all as visible to Merlin as if he was whispering it to him with his own voice.

"I was there."

His timbre was not as audacious now; the shaking of his voice was scarcely audible, but it was there, and so Merlin could hear it plainly.

"I was there when my friend died," the king continued, gazing unflinchingly, the sorrow more evident with every word. "You cannot be him. You cannot fool me. My Merlin is gone."

One side of the old sorcerer's mouth twitched with either pain or joy, and his eyes fixated upon Arthur's, warm and perceptive, as though he knew something that the other man did not, something wonderful, something that could make everything better, could make his life _right_ again…

"Not without you, sire," he murmured, the words certain and unexpected, so low that no person could hear but Arthur.

The other said nothing in response, only did the lines on his brow deepen as his eyes grew all the more troubled.

Merlin's demeanor darkened the same, and then, without warning, he clutched Arthur's left hand in his own with fervor, curving his warm fingers over the cold ones which held fast to the hilt of Excalibur.

Arthur felt it, the instant the sharp and sweet magic touched him through the contact, and his breath stuttered, once, his gaze falling to their hands before rising again, filled with an almost frightened sort of hope.

There was the faintest shrug of Merlin's narrow shoulders, and his expression did not plead for Arthur to believe him, but was instead bright and tender with the inward assurance that he would.

"When have I ever gone anywhere without you, Arthur?" he murmured simply. "Do you really believe"—His gentle hand tightened around Arthur's calloused one, and the king held his breath at the flash of magic which seeped into his very veins.—"that I have followed you everywhere for these many years, only to venture into the next life before you? Did you really think that my magic could bear to be cut off from you now?"

Arthur inhaled the barest of breaths through his nostrils.

"You said yourself," he murmured, perhaps without even realizing that he was speaking to this man as though he knew already it was his Merlin, "that you had done all you must. Your time to be needed by this world was through."

Merlin looked aside for a brief moment, his brow furrowing ever-so-slightly in thought.

"It was not," he said at last, lifting his head again with conviction, "for this world that I was here. It was for you, Arthur, and only you. I always knew that."

It was Arthur's turn to look away, his fingers tensing beneath Merlin's as he weighed this answer in his mind.

"No man," said he, barely more than a hoarse mutter, painfully accepting and logical and yet not without the slightest glimmer of desire for the impossible, "can deny Death's bidding, Merlin."

Merlin moved slightly closer, a smile dancing on his lips, his other hand coming to help the first pull at Arthur's until it relaxed around the handle of his blade, no longer ready to strike, no longer _wanting_ to.

"Nothing can make me leave you, Arthur," the sorcerer whispered, his forehead barely brushing against his king's, deliberately but without imposition, as he spoke like a lullaby. "Nothing is powerful enough to break my soul away from yours. I am sure of this now."

The other man bowed his head, touching his temple more solidly to this sorcerer's and feeling it when the faintest hint of magic stirred wisps of his blonde hair, longing with hidden desperation to believe the words this man said, to know that it might be true, that this Merlin might really be his own, whom he had lost he thought forever, that he was here with him again…but knowing in his mind that it surely couldn't be real…_surely _Merlin's love for him couldn't be so very strong…

"Besides," came the quiet jest, as though in answer to his doubts, "you know more than anyone. I never do what I'm told."

And when he looked hastily up, something seemed to connect between them, between his heart and the beautiful, playful smile spreading across the other man's fair face, and as quickly as that, the king's once-broken countenance was set free of all uncertainty and sorrow.

The sword fell again, this time of his own will, and with a passion which had long-since been drained from him, he circled his arms around the too-thin shoulders, clutching his lost friend to him as though they were the only ones there, like his knights and his court members were nothing but figments, for he knew, _he could feel it_, that this was _his_ Merlin, his precious Merlin, and he cared not how or why or from where the miracle came, but only that it had, and that he would never neglect to know that it was, indeed, a miracle…that Merlin was _his_ miracle, always, even when he felt that everything was over, even after they'd said goodbye for what felt like the last time, Merlin was _still with him_, still unwilling to abandon him, no matter how he did not deserve him.

Merlin let a small laugh escape him as his ribs ached suddenly in the crushing embrace, and he felt the tiny, iron circle of his ring bear against his collar as Arthur's face was pressed into his throat; a warm tear fell upon his skin from wet, sapphire eyes, and he pressed his palm against the back of his friend's head, fingers circling in the golden strands, even as he noted, somewhere in his subconscious, that the blonde was considerably lighter now, and that at last, he was here to lift the aging strain from Arthur, and finally, _finally_, he was home at his side, and he would never have to fear being forced away again.

For what could have been hours, not a person in the room dared to move at the sight before them, of their beloved king and their noble sorcerer reunited again. All the while, Merlin merely held his king and friend, let Arthur press bruises into his back with his embrace, and Arthur held onto him as though Merlin was the only thing upon which he could depend, as though he was his very source of life…._He was_.

At long last, it was not until Arthur pulled away that there was another sound at all.

"You've got some serious explaining to do, _Merlin_."

The full grin which brightened the whole place drove away any more tears, and Merlin rejoiced in the sound of that familiar tone, and in the wonderfully familiar look he was getting now—dark, angered, _though not really_. The old Arthur was returned, the world-weary and listless Arthur chased away, and that was really all he ever wanted to assure for the rest of his life, and so he nodded with willingness, and squeezed Arthur's shoulder once more as the world began to move around them, worth braving now that they had found one another's strength in it again.

Arthur wore the ring about his neck for the remainder of his days, but he never really needed it, for never again did Merlin leave him. When his years were finished, and it came his time to die, he knew in his final moment of life that Merlin's soul was bound to his forever, and so he went with as much peace and courage as Merlin had always given him.

And Merlin followed him into the dark.

**The End**

* * *

_Is this writer really lame enough to use a Death Cab for Cutie reference as the last line of her story?  
Yes; yes, she is.  
Well, that's all, folks! (Oh, look. Another lame reference.) I just want to thank every single one of you again for reviewing, and I'll be trying to answer all the ones I can from now on, since I now have a laptop to work from and I don't have to desperately hunt people to let me borrow theirs. So please do review, if for no other reason than to give me someone to write to. :)  
Good night, all, and thank you again for reading! *curtain drops*_


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